The Wedding Shroud - A Tale of Ancient Rome (13 page)

*

Arnth Ulthes, Zilath of Veii, smiled. It was not the smile of a politician—no grease was needed—it was oiled by goodwill. It was appealing despite the fact his teeth were chipped and cracked. To her surprise he was wearing a purple-bordered toga, as if warning her that a zilath was as important as any consul.

Caecilia glanced nervously around the atrium as she faced the prospect of meeting Veientane society. Fortunately, its highest citizen was charming. She sensed Ulthes was a listener not afraid to let others be heard above his own voice.

As Aemilius’ niece, Caecilia was accustomed to being in the presence of men of high standing. They did not frighten her and being ignored by them was reassuring. This man seemed genuinely pleased to see her and so his interest made her tongue-tied.

‘I welcome you because you hold peace in your young hands. I am glad you agreed to marry Vel Mastarna as I wished.’

His Latin was rough but intelligible, yet Caecilia wondered at his choice of words. True enough, there had been acquiescence, but she could still feel the pressure of her uncle’s palm on her back.

‘Lord Ulthes is very popular,’ whispered Cytheris. ‘He has been elected Zilath three times in a row. It is unheard of. The master is very close to him, although some on the High Council think too close.’

She watched Ulthes clap Mastarna on the shoulder. Three fingers were missing from his hand. Her husband’s tone was warm, and the Zilath, who seemed as old as Tata, grinned at him as boys do when sharing a crude joke. They are friends, she thought, not just fellow citizens. A friendship, it seemed, great enough for Ulthes to convince Mastarna to anger his tribe by marrying her.

‘Caecilia, I trust this rogue with my life,’ said the Zilath. ‘Remember that. The knowledge may stand you in good stead.’

‘And I think, perhaps, he would trust his life with you, too, lord.’

The older man smiled again and ran his hand through his spiky grey hair. Standing closer to him now, she noticed feathery red veins fanned out across his cheeks from his large beaky nose. The creases around his eyes revealed a fondness for laughter, but the deep grooves from nose to mouth hinted of other emotions.

‘I hear you fought a band of Gauls. As they are a constant menace I might recruit you.’

‘My bravery has been exaggerated. I wouldn’t want to face the prospect of death every day.’

‘Oh, but you already do, young one. Tuchulcha awaits all of us in the end.’

His tone was sobering, making her see how he had acquired the solemn furrows upon his face. Caecilia would have asked who Tuchulcha was but they were interrupted. The man who addressed the magistrate was as hostile as the Zilath was friendly.

The atrium was full of men with scars and stolen limbs. Yet this nobleman appeared unscathed by battle, despite appearing to be the same age as her husband. Broad-shouldered, impressively tall, his thick black hair was swept back revealing a high forehead. In profile Caecilia thought him handsome, then he turned to face her and she saw that his features were slightly lopsided with one ear lower than the other and his mouth askew. A faint sheen of sweat covered his skin, and when he spoke she knew he cradled this imperfection to him, nurturing the resentment that it caused him.

Voice raised and body tense, he accosted Ulthes in a derogatory tone, then eyed Caecilia up and down in a way that forced her to lower her head. She wished she understood what they were saying, only discerning one word being repeated: ‘Seianta’.

Mastarna bristled and she thought for a moment that he would strike the other, but Ulthes restrained him. The tall man retreated.

‘Who was he? What did he say?’

‘Take no notice of him. He’s a fool,’ Mastarna said, turning back to Ulthes.

‘What did that man say?’ Caecilia whispered to her maid.

‘Nothing, my lady. He is bad tempered, that one. He doesn’t agree with the treaty and wants the city to declare war.’

Caecilia scanned the room for the angry man, who stood off to one side, his expression openly contemptuous. He, like Camillus, wanted conflict. Should she admire him as she did the senator?

‘But there is more, isn’t there?’

The maid glanced at Mastarna, making sure he was not listening. Cytheris’ reticence annoyed her.

‘Tell me!’

‘It is nothing, mistress. He was insulting and it does not bear repeating.’

‘Cytheris is right.’

The women were startled at Mastarna’s intrusion. The Greek girl bowed her head but Caecilia persisted in her questions.

‘Be quiet. You need only know that his father was slain and his corpse mutilated by your people.’

She fell silent. How many others here had fathers or brothers killed by Roman hands? Already she had learned that the three principes who’d accompanied her still grieved. Vipinas’ and Pesna’s dislike of her was evident but had not stopped them defending her. Tonight, they had returned to merely tolerating her. Only Apercu had greeted her with any warmth. It was now clear that while Rome had its qualms, Veii’s acrimony had been hidden until revealed in the anguish of this lord. She doubted she would be kindly treated if the compact were to be broken.

But if Mastarna had sympathy for this tall, resentful lord, why were his fists still clenched and his eyes angry?

*

The banquet hall was separated from the garden by a curtain drawn aside to allow the guests to move between the two. The area was festooned with soft drapes of silver cloth and there were huge vases of hyacinth everywhere, their fragrance perfuming the air. It was as though Caecilia had been invited to a picnic rather than a dinner, only more sumptuous, more imposing than any basket of titbits carried to the oak woods on the Caelian Hill.

Inside the hall the ceiling towered above her, chequered with yellow and black squares, and a mural extended across an entire wall. A bearded man on a throne was painted upon it.  Naked to the waist, wearing a leopard skin mantle around his shoulders, he sat holding a thyrsus staff while at his feet lay a panther, its tongue lolling from its sharp-toothed mouth. Surrounding him were strange men with tails and ears of horses guzzling wine and dancing in ecstasy. Caecilia wondered if he was a god or sovereign of some strange land where depravity was lauded—depravity such as she was witnessing tonight.

Her face was burning from the antics of the semi-naked Etruscans. At first she did not know where to look but soon she was gaping at their beauty and wickedness. Tarchon had a face and form that could beguile, but many here tonight were also smooth-skinned and honey-limbed with sculpted hair and kohl-ringed sloe eyes. And just as Mastarna had warned, the women were elegant in their shamelessness, although not all wore beautiful sheer robes.

Unlike the family meal where she’d been allowed her own divan, the women sat on their husband’s couches. These had headboards with deep mattresses piled high with pillows, more bedding than upholstery. The men lay languidly upon them, being fed morsels by their women who sidled up beside them.

She knew they were sniggering at her. At her clumsy garb and drab hair. Indignation welled within her, but at the back of her mind was her failure to heed Mastarna about his gift of the golden gown.

Then there was the feast itself. The dinner was sumptuous: cherry and dormouse, trout’s roe, and, as the centrepiece, a roasted stag. Unused to such rich and abundant food, Caecilia ate little, too nervous to do other than pick at the delicacies that were served by naked slave boys no more than nine years old, hair in ringlets down their backs. They must have been chosen for their loveliness.

There were other boys, too, who shared divans with some men as though they were wives. Caecilia supposed they were their sons, too young to warrant their own dining position.

The fathers were affectionate, too, holding them close.

*

A woman lay next to Ulthes on the dining couch. One of her breasts was bare. It was full and firm, the nipple pink and plump. Caecilia could not help staring yet the woman seemed to enjoy her scrutiny, glancing occasionally across the room to check if the Roman was still inspecting her. Caecilia reddened every time she was caught out.

Was she Ulthes’ wife? The Zilath absentmindedly stroked the woman’s breast, running his fingers along its curves and down her supple white arm while he conversed with others who approached him. Seeing this set Caecilia’s heart racing. Taking a deep breath hardly slowed the hammering.

It was not as if the woman was the most beautiful there. Caecilia had spied others in the huge hall who boasted fairer looks. But with her bracelets at the wrist and above her elbows, the creature had allure. Exotic. There was a sensuousness about her. Caecilia had never seen someone with golden hair. Never seen a woman with her hair cut short, the ends brushing against her shoulders, an elegant ribbon wound around her forehead and trailing down her back.

‘Her name is Erene,’ said Cytheris quietly.

Caecilia realised she should stop spying. ‘Is she wife to Ulthes?’

The maid giggled. ‘Only in bed.’

Caecilia blushed again and pressed her fingers to her forehead where a headache was beginning. ‘Are you telling me she is a whore?’

‘Some would think her so but my people admire her as a hetaera, a companion. Others call her a courtesan. Lord Ulthes is her patron.’

Caecilia was bewildered. She had never heard of such a name, but no matter what they called her the woman was still a harlot.

‘If Ulthes brings his mistress, where is his wife?’

‘She’s not been seen outside their home since their two sons died. Her misery now fills the void their death created in her heart.’

Caecilia scanned the garden and hall, studying the women around her.

‘And the wives let their husbands bring these hetaerae?’

The maid arranged Caecilia’s gown, ‘I know it is strange for wife and courtesan to sit together. It would not happen in my land. But many men here value Erene for her accomplishments. That is why she is called a companion.’

Caecilia frowned, wondering what ‘accomplishments’ meant.

‘Mistress Seianta did not like her, though,’ the maid continued. ‘She thought Lord Ulthes unwise to pander to her.’

At the name ‘Seianta’ Caecilia put up her hand. It was the one the angry nobleman had said repeatedly. ‘Seianta?’

‘Why, the master’s first wife. She died near four years ago. Did he not tell you?’

The Roman girl shook her head.

First an adopted son and now a wife. Questions swirled in Caecilia’s mind. What was this Seianta like? How did she die?

At the other end of the chamber, Mastarna was playing dice, a gaming table balanced between his knees and his opponent’s. The golden tesserae spun and clicked upon the wood. It was clear to her that the betting the night before had been a mere distraction after routing the brigands. Tonight, the gambling was serious. Mastarna’s eyes gazed upon the dice as though they were his most precious possessions. His hands caressed them, almost reluctant to let them go, as he made his throw.

Caecilia remembered his distant look under the wedding mantle and realised he must have loved this Seianta just as she loved Drusus. Loved her and honoured her enough to be insulted by the mere mention of her name.

They had barely spoken throughout the dinner and she noticed how steadily he consumed the wine. Unlike others, though, he seemed to be unaffected by the vintage. Sitting next to him on the couch, she did not know what to say. About the carousing. The lewdness. The nudity. Yet when he left her to speak to his guests she felt as if he’d abandoned her to the foxes like a lonely hen upon a roost. Reluctantly, she realised his presence had been some comfort, despite their near silence. The night of the bandits had forged a tenuous bond.

*

After a while the chattering of conversation and music pushed thoughts of Seianta away. Caecilia called for her goblet to be filled with cordial again, grateful for the drink. It tasted peculiar but was soothing, making her head light, the slight giddiness matching a world spinning out of control.

Larthia lay on a couch by herself, her kerchief pressed to her lips. She ate nothing except a specially prepared gruel. Occasionally, the matron would glance at Caecilia, nodding reassuringly.

Most of the men were drunk. In Rome, the married women had always been shuffled from banquets before the men began their heavy drinking. Even as a maiden, although cloistered in her room, Caecilia knew by the men’s voices and raucous laughter when the god of wine had arrived.

Here, the women seemed to be drunk, too. Were they not afraid of punishment? It explained, though, the shocking sight of men and women dancing in the garden under a starry night, their fingers curved backwards, palms opened elegantly. Facing each other, they weaved and circled, swaying and singing to the music of castanets and horns, their shadows darting around them in the candlelight, phantoms escaping mundane daylight to scamper into night-time revels.

Tarchon appeared beside her, holding a jug. A faint scent of jasmine clung to him, better suited to a woman than a man. He, too, was dressed in only a kirtle, his skin gleaming in the fading daylight with a sheen of oil, his dark eyes shining, almost glittering. Her gaze travelled guiltily from his face to the contours of his chest, stomach and flanks.